


Maybe I'm a Lion

by MasterOfThePen



Series: Maybe I'm a Lion [1]
Category: Radiant Historia
Genre: Acrophobia, Gen, Headcanon, Spoilers, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 11:02:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13657689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterOfThePen/pseuds/MasterOfThePen
Summary: Reaching forward, Rosch took hold of the ornate spear, and as his fingers curled around the shaft, a sudden warmth flooded through him. Something about its heft and weight felt undeniablyright,as though the weapon had truly been forged specifically for his hand to wield.





	Maybe I'm a Lion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Svirdilu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Svirdilu/gifts).



They traveled deeper into the ruins, their footsteps echoing within the hollow expanse. They could hear the hiss of sand sifting between cracks in the ceiling, the wind whistling through chinks in the stonework. Shafts of sunlight created dazzling columns, illuminating the dust particles floating through the air. Thrusting up from the floor were huge Mana crystals, far larger than the ones found in Celestia. They shimmered in the darkness in pale shades of blue and green. Twisted vines stretched between the crumbling foundations of various floors, creating a sort of living rope ladder that spanned the different levels of the ruins.

It was here at the base of one of these massive vines that the party paused to consider their next course of action.

“There doesn’t seem to be anywhere else to go but down,” Raynie said, peering over the edge of the precipice. Some sand shifted beneath her boots and spilled over the crumbling stonework into the darkness below.

“Don’t stand so close to the edge!” Marco said. “You’d never survive a fall from that height!”

Rosch was glad that _someone else_ had said it. He didn’t trust his own voice not to crack with fright if he had offered a similar warning. The huge soldier stood well away from the edge while the others debated amongst themselves.

“Chill out, Marc, I’m not gonna fall!” But Raynie stepped back a few paces all the same. “Still, it’s awfully convenient that these vines are around, huh? It’s not like we brought any rope with us, so if these vines weren’t here, we’d be royally screwed!”

“We’d best start climbing,” Stocke said, gazing down into the darkness and trying to gauge the distance to the lowest depths.

Rosch swallowed audibly. “Isn’t there another way? Maybe a staircase we missed or something?”

“All the staircases on this level have crumbled apart. This is the only way down.” In fact, as Stocke surveyed the levels below, it seemed that most of the staircases had succumbed to the elements. Streets and promenades had deteriorated beyond all recognition, creating huge gaps that couldn’t be traversed by jumping.

No, if they wanted to progress, they would have to climb.

Stocke took hold of a bundle of vines and gave it a sharp tug. They held firm in his grip and the tension was taut. “The vines are strong enough to support your weight, Rosch. You’ll be fine.”

“That’s not really the issue here…”

Raynie shot the huge soldier an impish grin. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights!”

One look at Rosch’s pale face indicated that that was indeed the case. Raynie frowned, thrusting her hands against her hips. “C’mon, don’t be such a scaredy-cat! You’re the Young Lion of Alistel, aren’t you? So, act like it!”

Turning on her heel, Raynie made her way to the edge of the precipice and crouched down. “Look, it’s not even that far down. It’s just like all the rope-climbing exercises we did back in basic training.”

“Don’t remind me,” Marco grumbled. The young medic wasn’t exactly built for rigorous exercise, and his stumpy little limbs made rope climbing a particularly hellish endeavor.

As Raynie shimmied her way down, Aht bounced toward the edge of the precipice. “I’ll go next!” she said cheerily as she teetered precariously over the edge, watching Raynie’s descent.

Rosch could feel his throat tightening with worry and made to reach for her, but Gafka’s deep voice cut in. “Will you need any assistance, Lady Aht?”

“No thanks! I’ll be fine on my own!”

And with that, Aht leaped into the air, and Rosch just barely had enough time to shout, “Aht, no!” before the Satyros child plummeted from sight.

He turned and gaped at Gafka, who continued to stare at the spot where Aht had apparently leaped to her doom. The Gutral’s expression was as stony as ever. How could he just stand there looking so unconcerned when his charge must be little more than a bloody smear on the stones below by now?

Suddenly, Aht’s laughter echoed across the chamber, and Rosch caught sight of a faint quirk at the corner of Gafka’s mouth. He turned just in time to see Aht standing on what appeared to be an impossibly sheer cliff face. Somehow, her goatlike feet managed to find a purchase, and with a wave in Gafka’s direction, Aht continued to skip along the craggy surface toward the floor below. Raynie hooted and hollered, clearly impressed with Aht’s dexterity. 

“Did you know she was going to do that?!” Rosch bellowed at no one in particular. Now he could _definitely see_ the smile on Gafka’s face.

“You worry too much, Tough One,” he said, and a hint of amusement softened his normally stoic tone. Rosch quickly snapped his jaw shut, feeling his face redden with embarrassment. 

In a matter of minutes, Aht had nearly reached the bottom of the ravine. She leaped the last few feet, doing a somersault, and landed with a clickity-clack of hooves against stone.

“Ta-da!” Aht raised her arms above her head, tail wagging with triumph.

“That was amazing!” Raynie said, clapping appreciatively. “I knew you were light on your feet, but I had no idea you were basically part mountain goat!”

Aht folded her arms behind her head and grinned. “My friends and I climb the Boundary Tree all the time, so I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Gafka peered over the edge of the precipice before turning to Marco. “Are you in need of assistance, Small One?”

Marco frowned, clearly not impressed with the nickname, however apt it might be. “I suppose it would be faster if you carried me,” he admitted.

“Then climb on.” Gafka crouched down and waited for Marco to scramble onto his back. The young medic hooked his fingers through the leather straps beneath Gafka’s pauldrons. Once he was certain that Marco had a secure grip, Gafka swung himself over the edge and began climbing. His large, powerful arms seemed well-suited for the task, and he was already halfway down by the time Stocke made his way toward the vines. 

He paused, glancing toward Rosch. “You can do this,” Stocke said, offering a wry smile. “Just don’t look down.”

The huge soldier scowled. “Easy for you to say!” 

But Stocke was already descending and was thus spared the brunt of Rosch’s tirade. The huge soldier shuffled closer, acutely aware of the sound of sand shifting beneath his armored boots as he approached the edge. He leaned over, just enough to catch sight of his friends’ upturned faces before a wave of dizziness forced Rosch to stagger back. He covered his mouth with one hand, stifling a groan along with the sudden urge to throw up his breakfast.

“Come on, Rosch!” He could hear Raynie’s voice floating up from the depths. “You can do this!”

“Yeah! You can do it!” Aht added.

The huge soldier shuffled back toward the edge, forcing down a whine of displeasure. He looked down once more, fighting back the irrational urge to simply turn tail and run.

Instead, he focused on Stocke’s face staring up at him. He seemed little more than a red smear in the dimness below. Cupping both hands around his mouth, Stocke shouted: “Rosch! We don’t have time for this! If you don’t come down here, you’re going to get left behind!”

Get left behind? Rosch felt his stomach clench with a very different sort of fear, one that had absolutely nothing to do with the possibility that he might end up plummeting to his death.

“H-Hang on, I’m coming! Just… gimme a second, will ya?”

Closing his eyes, Rosch took a deep, steadying breath. He could do this. He’d faced down enemy soldiers and impossible odds on the battlefield time and time again. He’d survived Sonja’s numerous attempts at installing Core Parts in his Gauntlet. Hell, he’d even overcome his fear of rejection and finally _confessed his feelings for her_! Compared to that, climbing a bunch of flimsy vines down a three-hundred-foot drop should be a piece of cake, right?

Just as Rosch was lowering himself to his knees, something hummed in the darkness. It was a rhythmic whirring sound, one which was very familiar to Rosch. It sounded like the hum of servos inside his Gauntlet, but the volume was cranked up to eleven. And along with that dreadful hum was the slow, ponderous clank of metal joints, the rusty screech of metal scraping against metal.

**Ga-shunk, ga-shunk, ga-shunk.**

The hair at the nape of Rosch’s neck bristled; he already knew what was approaching even before he turned toward the ancient Thaumaton lumbering toward him. Its body was coated in a layer of moss and lichen, and though the huge battle axe clutched in its massive hand was covered in rust, the blade looked sharp enough to cut through Rosch’s armor with a single blow.

“What’s that noise?” Marco called up from the depths, but Rosch didn’t bother answering. He scrambled over the edge of the precipice, his armored boots scrabbling for purchase as his right hand tangled into the bundle of vines in a deathgrip.

**Ga-shunk, ga-shunk, ga-shunk.**

The Thaumaton swung its head toward Rosch, and two pinpricks of crimson light shone through the darkness of its visor. It lumbered toward him, gaining speed, and raised the axe over its head. Rosch ducked as the Thaumaton swung wildly; he felt the air whistling as the axe passed mere inches from his head.

Stocke took a few steps forward, staring helplessly up at his friend. “Rosch! Get down here, now!” 

“I’m trying!” Rosch raised the Gauntlet to block another incoming blow. The axe screeched against the Gauntlet’s razor claws, and he could feel the weight of the blow vibrating all the way to his shoulder. The Thaumaton jerked the blade back and the motion threatened to throw Rosch off balance. He felt his precarious grip slip just a little and flung the Gauntlet against the cliff face, desperately seeking a handhold. “W-Whoa! Somebody do _something_!”

“I’m on it!” Raynie brandished her spear, twirling it above her head. “A little shock to the system oughta slow this thing down!”

Rosch’s eyes grew round as dinner plates.

Oh no. 

Oh _no_.

Not that. Anything but _that_. Rosch would rather take his chances with the Thaumaton attempting to butcher him into little cutlets of meat than risk getting caught in the crossfire of one of Raynie’s Thunder spells.

“No, don’t—” 

But Raynie had already pointed her spear at the Thaumaton and Rosch could feel the familiar tingle of Mana condensing around him as the spell took form. The air suddenly grew heavy as the atmospheric pressure shifted and the air crackled with electricity. The Thaumaton raised its weapon for the decisive blow—

(He heard Stocke scream his name, and Rosch wondered, briefly, if his friend would have to go back in time and reverse these events…)

—and that’s when Rosch loosened his grip and fell. There was a concussive clap of thunder and the smell of ozone; the sound of servos shrieking in agony as the Thaumaton jittered uncontrollably, sparks dancing along its limbs. The eldritch glow within its eyes suddenly winked out and its upraised arm dropped to the floor with a hollow clank. The hum of servos and actuators fell silent. Unable to maintain its balance, the Thaumaton slowly teetered over the edge of the precipice and fell alongside Rosch.

The huge soldier flung his left arm out and the Gauntlet’s claws skittered against the rocky outcropping, trailing sparks in its wake as he continued to plummet. But it was enough to slow his fall; just enough so that he could grab hold of the vines with his right hand and abruptly halt his decent. 

Rosch clung for dear life, pressing himself flat against the cliff face as the Thaumaton plummeted past. Its massive body bounced once against the rocky outcroppings before slamming into the ground in a pile of broken limbs and twisted metal. Rosch heaved a sigh and silently gave thanks to the Prophet for sparing his life.

“Rosch!” Stocke called up to him. “Are you alright?”

The huge soldier kept his gaze firmly focused _away_ from the ground. “Yeah… I’ll live…”

It was slow going, but Rosch managed to make it the rest of the way down with no further mishaps. The minute his feet touched the solid earth, he wobbled toward the broken Thaumaton and swiftly kicked it in the head. “You! Stupid! Hunk! Of! Junk!” he said, punctuating each word with another savage kick. So long as he was moving, Rosch could hide the fact that his knees were still shaking from his near brush with death.

“I think it’s dead.” Aht pointed out that rather obvious fact in her usual cheery manner.

One last kick sent the Thaumaton’s head rolling across the floor. Rosch grinned with immense satisfaction as something shifted inside the Thaumaton’s broken body, causing the pile of scrap metal to collapse even further. “No, _now_ it’s dead.”

At least he had managed to work off enough nervous energy where he could feel confident that his knees wouldn’t start rattling inside his armor the moment he stood still.

Stocke slowly approached with Raynie at his side. “Good to see you’re so full of energy,” he said, his lips quirking into a wry grin. “Ready to start climbing again?”

As much as Rosch wanted to answer with “Hell no!” he knew it wouldn’t do much good to continue balking, not when time was of the essence, and they still had no clue as to Heiss’ whereabouts. 

Instead, Rosch clenched his fist in grim determination and forced as much as enthusiasm into his voice as he could muster. “Sure, bring it on!”

“Good, because there’s another drop-off fifty feet from here, and there’s no where else to go but down.”

The huge soldier quickly surveyed their surroundings to discover, much to his chagrin, that Stocke wasn’t lying. There was, indeed, another drop-off with only those godforsaken vines trailing down into the darkness.

“Oh, _come on_!”

\-----

They continued to travel deeper into the ruins. It was slow going, since everyone was half expecting Heiss to suddenly materialize from within the shadows, but that wasn’t the only reason. While Rosch was surprised to find that the task of descending the vines became marginally easier the more he was forced to do it, that didn’t stop him from complaining loudly and constantly about it. He was beginning to wish fervently that Heiss _would_ suddenly leap from the shadows so that he could give him a proper punch in the face. If the mastermind behind Specint was truly watching them from the shadows, then he was probably deriving some cruel amusement at seeing them clumsily navigate between the various levels.

“I am so sick and tired of climbing up and down these miserable vines,” Rosch said for what was probably the thousandth time. “It’s like we can’t even go fifty feet without having to climb down into some dank, dark hole leading to Prophet knows where!”

Stocke paused, glancing over his shoulder at the huge soldier, before pointedly turning away. Rosch followed his gaze to find _yet another_ bundle of vines leading toward the upper levels not twenty feet from their current position. 

“At least we’ll be climbing up this time,” Stocke said in his usual deadpan manner.

“Oh, for the love of Noah!” Rosch bellowed, completely missing the smirk half-hidden behind Stocke’s scarf. 

Marco heaved a long-suffering sigh while Raynie tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a giggle behind her hands. “I just hope this isn’t another dead-end,” he said flatly.

The party ascended the vines and found themselves in a chamber that might have once served as an audience hall. Four huge pillars stood in the center of the vast chamber, the only means of support, which kept the entire floor from crumbling away into the darkness below. Sunlight streamed weakly through the cracks in the ceiling; the strongest source of illumination was offered by the clusters of Mana crystals scattered throughout. A small dune of sand collected at the far side of the chamber, past the four pillars, where a throne or some other object of importance would be ensconced. 

But there was nothing; only sand and dust and crumbling stone.

Except Stocke _could_ sense something. As he peered into the dimness, he thought he could see the telltale sparkle of some invisible object, cloaked by magic. Aht tugged on his sleeve and the two exchanged a knowing look. After all, she was the one who had gifted him with Mana Sight in the first place, so it was obvious that she could sense something was there, too.

“Ugh, not _another_ boring, empty room,” Raynie said.

“It’s not completely empty,” Stocke said, striding purposefully toward the far side of the chamber.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

Stocke didn’t answer. Instead, he stretched out his hand and the empty air began to shimmer and waver. It was like staring into the heat haze of a desert mirage. The others gathered closer as the cloaking spell dropped away in a haze of greenish sparkles to reveal a huge statue of a human figure clad in armor, though its head was that of a lion. It was carved from some pale marble, and though the flow of wind and sand had weathered the surface, most of the detail remained intact.

Rosch found himself drawn immediately to the statue’s face with its solemn expression and deep, soulful eyes. It was a match for Rosch in height and girth, and its thick mane of hair flowed loosely along its back and shoulders, much like his own. It was almost like staring into a distorted reflection of his own face, twisted into something far too noble and proud and bestial, and Rosch could feel his mouth twisting into a grimace beneath the statue’s silent gaze.

“Hey! Get a load of this statue!” Raynie said, reaching up to wipe a bit of dust that had collected upon its muzzle. “Is it supposed to be Beastkind? I’ve never seen one that looked like this before.”

“Neither have I,” Aht said. She turned to Gafka and asked, “Have you?” The Gutral shook his head.

“There’s an inscription here…” Marco crouched at the foot of the statue. He brushed a hand across a corroded plaque at the statue’s base, wiping away the years of dust that had collected upon its surface. “It looks like it’s written in ancient Granorgite. I can try to translate it, but I’m a bit rusty with my ancient languages.”

“I bet if we had the princess—er, the queen with us, she could read it easily,” Raynie said.

“Even so,” Stocke said, “it’s better that Eruca remain safely back at the castle.”

“Check out this spear!” Raynie pointed to the statue’s right hand. “It’s absolutely huge! You think they used it to hunt boar or something?”

The spear, upon closer inspection, was not carved from stone; it was a beautiful and formidable weapon somehow untouched by the ravages of time. The shaft was crafted from pale white wood, polished to a fine luster. Gold filigree inscribed the length of the spear, etching paths of gilded roses and twisting vines. The image of a lion wrought in burnished gold stalked among the roses, its fangs bared in a fearsome roar.

Truly, the weapon was a testament to craftsmanship.

Marco shook his head, as he continued to study the plaque. “I don’t think so. It’s the wrong shape, and it’s too heavy to be used for hunting animals. It’s probably designed for piercing through plate armor, like the type of lance that Rosch uses.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I probably couldn’t lift that thing, even if I tried!” She turned toward the huge soldier. “Why don’t you take it? I bet a big guy like you could easily carry it!”

Rosch blinked as though he’d been awakened from a trance. He had been staring intently at the statue the entire time in uncomfortable silence. “Wait, you want me to take it?”

“Well, sure!” Raynie reached up to pat the statue’s shoulder, sending a layer of dust puffing into the air. “I mean, just look at the size of this guy! It’s almost like he could’ve been some distant relative of yours. I can definitely see a resemblance, can’t you?” She grinned, having obviously meant it as a joke.

But Rosch didn’t take it that way at all. He gazed once more into the statue’s solemn eyes and it felt as though he was being silently judged… and found wanting. The huge soldier took an unsteady step backward, his bootheel scraping against the sand-strewn floor, and slowly shook his head.

Raynie blinked in confusion, the grin dropping from her face. “It was just a joke, yeah?” 

She spared a glance toward Stocke, but his gaze was firmly focused on his best friend. His lips were pursed in a worried frown. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“They were just stories,” Rosch said slowly. He took another step backward. “We had no _proof_ , you see? All those records… they were lost during Noah’s Exodus. I’d only had the family portraits described to me, I never saw them for myself—”

Raynie tilted her head in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“My family…” He paused. “I mean, my _mother’s_ family. They were descended from Beastkind. Not Satyros—no one ever had horns or hooves. We thought Gutral seemed most likely since we tend toward large and solidly built, but…” The huge soldier spared a glance toward Gafka. “But the ears weren’t right. We always had furred ears, and Gutral don’t and—”

“Wait a minute!” Raynie said. “You’re saying you have fuzzy ears!?”

Rosch felt his face heat with embarrassment. “Why do you think I keep them covered all the time!?”

“I wanna see them!” Raynie advanced on the huge soldier, her hands reaching for his hair. 

Rosch raised his Gauntlet to block her advance, but she was already dancing toward his unprotected right flank. “Leave off, Raynie!”

“Would you two quiet down?” Marco shot them both a fierce frown, and they froze beneath the young medic’s icy glare. “I’m trying to concentrate on this translation.” 

He turned his attention to the plaque once more, but the frown hadn’t left his face. In fact, Marco’s brows drew even tighter with frustration. “Some of these words are giving me a bit of trouble. ‘To be carried,’ or maybe ‘wielded’ would be a better term, in this case, since this particle is obviously referencing the spear the statue is holding. But this word for ‘lion’ isn’t the same one they use when referring to the animal. It’s a euphemism, I think? A better translation might be ‘the people we call lions’, or maybe it’s ‘the people who call themselves lions’? It’s a little iffy on the context—”

“Leonals,” Gafka’s deep voice cut in.

“Pardon?”

“They called themselves ‘Leonals’.” Gafka folded his arms over his massive chest. “It is said that there were many tribes of Beastkind that roamed the continent, in the days before the empire fell to ruin. The Leonals were one such tribe. Some stories mention that they held close ties with the Imperial Family, serving as warriors and guardsmen, and their fierce devotion and loyalty made them well-suited for the role.”

“So, what happened to them?” Raynie asked.

“They were most likely destroyed when the empire fell,” Stocke said. “Though, clearly, there were some survivors.” He hazarded a curious glance toward Rosch before turning his attention back to the statue. “Maybe there were so few survivors that they ended up completely integrating into the human population, so there are only traces of their bloodline left.”

Gafka nodded. “That seems the most likely scenario.”

Marco stood and dusted off his knees. “In any case, I think the gist of this translation would be ‘this spear shall be wielded by one who is called a lion’.” His face split into a lop-sided grin. “I guess the ‘Young Lion of Alistel’ would fit the bill, right?”

Rosch rumbled deep in his throat. He still felt incredibly ambivalent toward the title bestowed upon him by Alistel’s military leaders, and now, standing face-to-face with a statue of one of his possible ancestors made him feel even less worthy of the title. “I don’t know…” His gaze dropped to the floor. “If my blood is truly that thin, do I even have a right to claim this weapon as my own? I’m not—I’m not Beastkind, but…”

But he also wasn’t wholly human, was he? At least, not by Hugo’s draconian standards, where anyone with even a drop of Beastkind blood was considered a second-class citizen at best, and a monster, at worst. And the Gauntlet didn’t exactly help Rosch differentiate himself from the latter, did it?

Aht approached softly, her hooves clicking against the stone floor, and touched his hand. The huge soldier looked down and was surprised to find her smiling. “It’s okay. I think that you’re supposed to have it. Because you’re going to be using it to protect people, right?”

“That’s right!” Raynie said. “We’ve gotta put an end to Heiss’s schemes, so we’re gonna need all the help we can get.” 

Though her voice was full of confidence, Rosch caught the quiver of uncertainty in her smile. She and Marco had both been hired on by Heiss, and Rosch knew that Raynie felt deeply indebted to the man who had given her a place and a purpose within Alistel’s walls. He understood how painful it was when loyalties once shared with someone you trusted unquestionably began to diverge. 

After all, he’d been in a similar position himself not that long ago.

Drawing a deep breath, Rosch turned toward the statue once more. He kept his head held high as he strode toward the statue with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel. The statue’s eyes seemed to bore into his own, but he refused to flinch from their piercing gaze.

Reaching forward, he took hold of the ornate spear, and as his fingers curled around the shaft, a sudden warmth flooded through him. He could sense that this weapon was infused with an abundance of Mana, and for some reason he felt stronger simply holding it. He swung the spear in a graceful arc, and something about its heft and weight felt undeniably _right,_ as though the weapon had truly been forged specifically for his hand to wield.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe I really am a lion.”

Stocke offered a rare smile. “It’s suits you,” he said, and Rosch felt his heart swell with confidence from his friend’s praise. 

“Yeah!” Raynie said. “It really does look like it was made for you.”

“Think of it this way,” Stocke said. “Your ancestors used this weapon to protect the members of the Imperial family. You’ll be doing the same thing, just in a less direct fashion.”

“You’re right. I won’t just be fighting to protect Eruca—I’ll be fighting for the sake of the entire continent. We’ve got to learn just what Heiss is planning, and put a stop to his schemes, no matter what.”

Rosch noticed, at that moment, that Aht was staring intently at Stocke with a strange look on her face. Something akin to sadness. “Don’t worry,” he said, flashing a brief smile. “I’ll use this weapon to protect Stocke, too. I won’t let anything bad happen to him. Promise.”

For some reason, her expression didn’t change, despite his reassurances. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said.

Rosch flinched and the smile dropped from his face. Before he could say anything more, the Satryos child hurried away toward the precipice and began descending the vines. He exchanged a questioning look with Stocke and shrugged helplessly.

“We’d best keep moving,” Stocke said. “Heiss is probably hiding in the lowest depths.”

Rosch heaved a sigh. “Which means even _more_ climbing, huh?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem for you,” Stocke’s lips curled into a knowing grin. “You’re a lion, after all.”

Rosch’s chest rumbled with a displeased growl. He wasn’t entirely sure if lions were fond of climbing trees or not, but as he shouldered the spear onto his back, he certainly felt a little braver. Brave enough to follow Stocke to the ends of the earth and beyond.

 _Maybe I’m a lion, after all,_ he thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Svirdilu for the 2018 RH Fanwork Exchange.
> 
> The original prompt was as follows: Some sorta adventure, set offscreen but during canon, based on one of the more interesting weapon/equipment descriptions! Ex: "A cape from a goddess of time" or "Cursed to drain life" or "A dress made of sunlight"... but pick your favorite, or whichever you think will make a compelling fic/art!
> 
> I chose to focus on the spear Der Löwe, which contains the flavor text "carried by those known as lions". The fic pretty much wrote itself at that point.


End file.
